


Oggle

by yeaka



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harper’s bad and sees good things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oggle

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Andromeda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He could, of course, do it without asking—he’d ask Rommie, naturally, or rather, answer when she inevitably found out—but after the last couple of strikes against him (so he’s a busy guy and this ship is built for ten times the engineering staff) it doesn’t seem like a good idea to run the risk. Especially when the Andromeda’s already getting suspicious on his congregation of supplies which may or may not be more for the furthering of the universe-renowned genius of Seamus Harper than the good of the ship, but really, a machine that could re-synthesize protein molecules into sparky cola would benefit everyone. 

He spends the whole way to Dylan’s quarters working on his speech all the same, flexi of stats clutched in one hand. It’s probably going to take a bit of convincing, but no one talks a game as good as Seamus. By the time he’s at Dylan’s door, he’s almost (half) sure that Dylan will give him the go ahead. 

He mutters to himself, “He’d probably okay it...” Because maybe he’ll turn around and go back to the lab and shut himself away for the next month without Dylan’s permission, but then he hears the familiar flicker of the ship’s sentience coming over the speakers.

 _“Okay what, Harper?”_ Her lovely voice has a tinge of suspicion to it, which is fair but nonetheless hurtful. 

Seamus laughs an unconvincing, “Nothing, babe!” He presses the door release to Dylan’s quarters before she can accuse him of not getting permission for his madness—he’s totally behaving himself this time—except the door just beeps and doesn’t open. 

Seamus tries again, jamming the panel on the side harder this time, but still nothing. So he beats one fist on it and calls, “Boss!” It doesn’t seem fair that he spent all this time worrying and scheming and formulating the perfect pitch just to _not_ get an audience with Captain Wonderful. A second knock, nothing happens, and it occurs to Seamus that this might be some kind of strange punishment for his delay in fixing the falling-apart basketball hoop down on the rec deck. He said he’d get to it, and he meant it; he just didn’t say _when_ , and his latest stroke of brilliance is clearly more important. But Dylan’s clearly punishing him anyway, probably lounging back in a chair and playing Go against the computer. In a bout of short-lived spite, Seamus hopes the computer’s winning. 

With a glance at the nearest camera of the Andromeda’s, in the ceiling at the crux of a corridor, Seamus casually shifts over to block the door panel from view. Using his shoulder as a shield, he quickly pries off the outer casing, reroutes two wires, removes another three, puts the panel back and hits the release button again. 

The door grunts open, heavily but smoothly sliding aside. At first glance, Dylan’s not around, but Seamus checked his captain’s location before coming up here, and he takes a step inside, prepared to shout said captain’s name at the top of his lungs before Andromeda realizes what he’s done. 

Before he gets a single letter out of his mouth, a side door opens, and Dylan steps into the room, dripping wet and completely naked. 

Seamus drops his flexi. It glides to the floor like a feather, making no sound, and while Seamus is too shocked to move, Dylan doesn’t notice him. There’s a fluffy blue towel currently attacking Dylan’s face; his head’s lowered while his muscular arms rub the fluffy material about, drying off his hair. It leaves the rest of his body all exposed, his slightly tanned skin, his lightly chiseled abs, the dark curls across his chest and the thicker patch below his stomach. Seamus manages to keep his eyes on the little rivulets clinging to Dylan’s pecs for a few seconds, before he inevitably strays to the rosy-brown nubs of Dylan’s moist nipples, down the hard lines and smooth skin and glistening reflections of water down the jut of his powerful hips, and finally to the thick cock thrust proudly into the air. Seamus should’ve known it would be massive. Of course it would. Dylan’s a heavy-gravity-worlder, and every last centimeter of his body seems to radiate strength, a striking handsomeness and an intangible allure that leaves Seamus’ mouth dry. Dylan’s cock isn’t circumcised like most of those Seamus has seen on Earth, and the little hood at the tip is drawn back just enough to see the pink slit below leaking a single bead of precum; evidently Seamus isn’t the only one who likes to take advantage of the automatic privacy-mode in the showers. Dylan’s cock is still hard, and even from this distance, Seamus can make out the little lines of veins around its girth, the slight curve of the shaft, and the weight of his large, tight balls. Seamus is unabashedly staring, too shocked and bizarrely light-headed to look away. 

He knew Dylan was hot, of course, but _damn_ , he didn’t know Dylan looked like _that_ naked. And he didn’t know he’d care so much. Naturally, Seamus knows he’s shameless, but he thought it was just for women, or mostly for women, but now here’s a prime example of unadulterated _man_ , and Seamus _wants it._

His pants are too tight. He’s hard. He’s horrible. He’s fast, easy, and he can’t even remember why he’s standing here—he’s busy staring at Dylan’s gigantic cock and wondering what it would feel like in his mouth. Assuming he could even get it to fit. It would probably unhinge his jaw, but Seamus has never minded getting a little rough below the sheets—with a prize like that, he’d be willing to work for it.

Then Dylan lowers the towel, brown hair a damp mess, and starts mopping up the stray drops along his biceps. 

He spots Seamus a second later, barks, “Harper!” and instantly drops the towel down to cover his waist. It’s like a spell is broken, and suddenly Seamus has the use of his eyes back, even though the image of Dylan’s cock is still imprinted firmly on the back of his corneas. Cheeks darkening but looking more surprised than angry, Dylan hisses, “What are you doing in here? I locked the door.”

Seamus licks his lips. He opens them, manages a useless, “Uh... s... sparky, I... synthesi...” and he just sort of trails off, entire speech forgotten. Dylan’s eyes trail down, and Seamus is suddenly hyper-aware of the tent in his pants, a whole new trip of self-discovery he certainly wasn’t ready to share with Captain Perfect. He quickly squeaks, “Sorry, boss, never mind, it’s uh... nothing. Yeah. Nothing.” And he turns around and _bolts_.

He realizes halfway down the corridor that he dropped his flexi, but it doesn’t seem to matter right now. He has more important things to deal with, like whether or not he’s as straight as he thought he was, and even that’ll have to wait until he gets into the safety of his own privacy-locked shower.


End file.
